Prophets Are Low
by Newsie-Potter-Epic
Summary: Takes place around HBP.   The Daily Prophet isn't doing to well. Sales are down, and they need help. Newsie help. But when uneducated American Muggles get to Hogwarts, not everyone is happy. Especially Racetrack, who has to stop breaking the fourth wall.
1. Effects of the Resession

Effects of the Recession in the Wizard World

"Circulation is down. 70%. And with circulation drops profits."

The room filled with gasps, and one person thudded to the floor, unconscious.

Finally, someone spoke up. "How can profits be down? WE'RE _THE DAILY __**PROPHET**_!" cried the one and only Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet journalist.

All of the people inside the Daily Prophet Headquarters in London were currently crowded into a small room, whether invited to the meeting or not.

"It's true," spoke the editor, Barnabas Cuffe.

"But can't we get more funding from the Ministry?" asked Andy Smudgley, a reporter.

"Nope," Cuffe replied. "Ever since they found You-Know-Who, they've stopped sending us funding to cover the truth."

At that, Rita promptly fainted, as well.

"Alright," Cuffe continued, directing his attention elsewhere, "I know that things are looking bad. And they are. But what we need is a reason why no one's buying."

The room remained silent.

"Come on, people, who's in charge of advertising? Mr. Finch?"

Crickets chirped. Well, they're in England, so cricket _players_ chirped.

"Alright. Does anyone have an idea as to _why_ _we are losing money by the second_?" Cuffe demanded angrily.

A shy columnist by the name of Shaman raised a quivering hand and spoke, "Perhaps owls are unable to deliver the newspaper in this heat." In response to everyone's lack of interest, Shaman continued, "Well, we've had a record-breaking June, and July has been one big heat wave so far."

Another reporter, Betty Braithwait, commented, "He could be right. What we need is an alternative way for people to purchase the _Daily Prophet_, and now."

"Yes! Thank you, Braithwait!" Cuffe cried. "So, how will we sell the _Prophet _now?"

Yet again, a new reporter named Jonathan answered. It's a known fact that reporters are extremely talkative. "What if we had actual people sell the papers? We could have them sell each paper separate, not a subscription, so people didn't feel pressured, and we could get children who would work for little, are used to the heat, and most wizards and witches find absolutely charming."

Cuffe scoffed. "Brilliant, Jonathan, brilliant. All of the children in Britain are at Hogwarts starting September 1."

Jonathan looked defeated, but Smudgley pondered aloud the three sentences that give this story a plot. Now, let's remember, children, that it is a VERY BAD IDEA to ponder aloud. Smudgley paused for a moment, and then said, "Who says they have to be British? They could be American, it doesn't matter! All that matters is that we get our paychecks next Thursday!"

To Cuffe's (and Smudgley's) surprise, the crowd of various newspaper workers nodded and murmured amongst themselves.

"It could work," Rita Skeeter declared, having been revived by emergency staff who were dragging the other unconscious person out of the room by the feet. "Bring back kids from America, and have them sell the _Daily Prophet _on the streets."

"Well, yes, but what American witch or wizard would allow their child to come here without them, and sell _newspapers?_" Betty Braithwait interrogated.

Cuffe said, "Kids in America used to do that, you know. Sell newspapers without their parents. Most of them didn't even have parents. They did that back around the turnoff the century. They were called… what were they called?"

At this point, I had to intervene. Not knowing what they're called is absolutely inexcusable.

"_Newsies," _I told him.

"What? Is that You-Know-Who? Hello?" Cuffe asked, startled.

"_Don't break the wall, Cuffe. Don't break the wall."_ Yeah, I know I'm not supposed to break the wall either, but to forget the Newsies? It was worth it.

"Newsies, they were called," Cuffe finally mentioned, probably deciding that my voice in his head was a figment of his imagination. I'll deal with that later. "They went around the streets of, say, New York City, and they sold newspapers, and then they stayed at an… apartment?"

"_Lodging house!"_

"No, a lodging house, I believe."

"So what are we going to do, travel back to 1899, tell these so-called 'Newsies' that they're coming to London to sell papers, and that things here are _extremely_ more technologically advanced, so that's why we can point magic wands at anything and make stuff happen?" This came from Jonathan, needless to say.

"Exactly! Brilliant, Jonathan, brilliant!" Cuffe decided. "So, do we send a Personal Portal?"

Rita Skeeter nodded evilly. "Tomorrow morning at the latest. Call Dumbledore and tell him that it's his turn to make up a promise. And a signed contract."_  
><em>


	2. Dumbledore's Debt and the Ghost

The Ghost of Narrators Past

It was December 20th, 1979. All of the stores in Diagon Alley were packed like that wet dog food into one of those little cans. Everyone had shopping left to do, but none had as much as Albus Dumbledore.

You see, running a school is expensive. If a student needs books, and the Board is too busy sitting around, eating Chocolate Frogs to care, who pays for the books? Who works overtime so the teachers don't quit the first time a student steals their quills? Who is the first one to pay for scholarships? Everyone who said, "Dumbledore!" gets a free virtual cookie.

So Dumbledore was in debt. Very much in debt. And Christmas is not a good time for that, especially with his 56-person Christmas list, who were all currently getting sticks of gum for the holiday. So he went to Gringots, where they declined his application for a loan, because of 1) his debt and 2) his afro was getting out of style.

Dumbledore wandered the streets of London, looking for money to actually buy legitimate presents for his friends/cousins/coworkers/neighbors/owlsitter. He went by the _Daily Prophet_ office, which was practically rolling in the dough, literally. He had heard that each employee got a 40% off coupon for Patty's Pastry Palace. His mouth watered.

Not thinking very well, Dumbledore went into the building, entranced by all of the expensive things and rich people.

"Can I help you?" the cranky receptionist squawked, spinning around in her wheelie chair that was imploding under her.

"Moneeeeeeeeey…" Dumbledore murmured under his breath.

"Pardon?" she groaned.

Dumbledore thought that she got minimum wage, too.

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I really must be on my way…"

"Wait just a ding-dang-dong minute! Aren't you Albert Dumplepoor?" Her face lit up.

"Yes, yes, money, yes, but I must be going now." He tried to rush out of the building, as he had just seen his least favorite reporter-

"Albus! Darling! How _are _you doing, dear?" blabbed Rita Skeeter, then just an intern.

"Oh, just fine, child, just fine." Dumbledore replied wearily. He was not in the mood for Rita's antics today.

"Really, Albus? Because I hear that you could use a little moola."

Dumbledore's ears perked up beneath his Afro. All he heard was "moola."

"Of course, all you need to do is sign this contract stating that, when we need the money back, should that _ever _happen, you will pay it back in full, plus 500%, or do any one favor we ask of you. Okay?"

Now, Dumbledore is not an idiot wizard. And I am not going to be an idiot author, to make him just say yes like that. But, one thought did creep into his mind.

"_Say yes…" _I said to him.

"What? Mother? Is that you?"

"_I don't know… but say yes and sign the contract and it will all go away…"_

"Who are you?"

"_I'm a ghost… the ghost of… Narrators Past…"_

Dumbledore shook his head. Must be the caffeine, or lack thereof.

"I'm truly very sorry, VERY sorry, Miss Skeeter, but I must be on my way."

He turned to leave, but Rita shouted, "Fine! Sign this, and all we'll need is one favor, Albus, one favor!"

He contemplated this. Could one little thing really do any harm?

He took a quill from a nearby desk and signed.


	3. 1899

1899

"Millions of people homeless! Impending war! Alien attack! War with homeless aliens?" Jack Kelly finished weakly, feeling the tiredness seep into his bones like a deep, penetrating sickness. Today was one of those days when he didn't feel like schlepping around in multiple layers of clothing, sweating profusely and swearing loudly just to earn his face a way into a corned beef on rye at Tibby's.

One of the new kids- Dave or Les- ran up to him. "Three papers, Jack, three! One after the other! Three!" yelled an excited, little kid-like voice behind him that Jack thought was Les' before he turned around and saw David.

"Three. Three papes. Three cents. Wow." said Jack, mumbling slightly through his thick accent that you know plenty about if you're reading this.

"Well, sorry, I'm just glad I'm doing a little business for a change. Les has his littleness, you have your experience, and I'm left scrambling for the passersby that you guys didn't already get!" Dave said with a slight, friendly laugh.

"You're makin' money either way, so don't gecha brain in a knot." Jack declared decisively. "It's your best feature."

The boys, kidding of course, were just joking, but Jack really was in a worse mood than usual. Davey looked a little hurt by his remarks, so Jack figured he better apologize, and/or pretend to.

"L:isten- sorry. Bein' a newsie's like bein' a- like bein' a fish. You do the same thing, every day, while people look atcha like youse some kinda animal too stupid to think in English. Too stupid to care. Too stupid to breathe without thinking so hard you might explode. So they walk on by, tappin' the glass a little here, tossin' in food a little there, but it's just a telegram you read over and over and over again."

David looked like a boar had just lumbered up and vomited a sapphire into his shoe. Jack? Has a brain? Woah. Mind blown.

"I- I'm sorry. I didn't know how bad things were for a while. But hey, we're all in this-"

At that moment, a strangely dressed man that looked like Kloppman if he lived 40 years longer stepped up to the pair of boys.

"Hello, sirs. I was wondering if you would be interested in accepting a job offer. You are newsboys, correct?"

The man was Albus Percival Wulferic Brian Dumbledore. And boy, did he have a proposition.


End file.
